


The Interview

by neverweremine



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2020-10-25 18:05:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20728499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverweremine/pseuds/neverweremine
Summary: The Boy Reporter no longer a boy? Written by Alba Demuro.Oh yes, now he recalled. Miss Demuro interviewed him a month ago in exchange for information on a case. The interview itself had faded into obscurity, but he remembered Miss Demuro telling him she’d send him a free copy of the newspaper once the paper published it. This must be that very paper. But where did marriage enter the picture? He didn't remember saying a word on marriage during the interview.





	1. Special Someone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A newspaper arrives at Marlinspike Hall.

Tintin laughed as Snowy dashed ahead, the dog giving a delighted bark as Marlinspike Hall came into view. It had been two weeks since they’d last been home and in that time autumn had arrived, turning the air crisp and green leaves brown. The change of scenery played tricks on his heart; made it seem if they’d been gone months instead of measly weeks. The homesickness pinged so deep that if Tintin had any less restraint he’d have raced towards the doors too. Then again ...**  
**

“Wait up, Snowy,” Tintin called. He broke into a light jog and caught up with a patient Snowy in no time. “All right, old friend. How about a race? First one to the door gets to sit in the armchair nearest the fireplace.” Snowy’s ears perked up and his tongue lolled out. A sign of acceptance. They both readied up, crouching low on their invisible starting line. “On go,” Tintin stated.

“Three…”

“Two…”

“One…”

“Go!” Like a shot, they were off. Tintin gained a hefty lead, his long legs carrying him further step-for-step, but where Tintin had the longer strides, Snowy had the boundless endurance. Halfway towards the finish line, Tintin’s legs started to lag and they became neck and furry neck. Sweat drenched ginger brows and his heart pounded in protest but Tintin does not surrender so quick. 

He imagined being in his favorite armchair near the fireplace, a puff pastry in one hand and a cool glass of water in the other, the book he left behind unfinished in the other. The Captain would sit across from him as he always does, in the worn red chair he called his own, and greet Tintin with a smile. Despite Tintin's fondness for the book he left behind unfinished, he imagined himself leaving it unattended as he and Haddock conversed well into the night. No disturbances, no distractions. Only them.

Tintin’s feet pounded against the paved road leading to Marlinspike Hall. His imaginations lent him the strength to overtake Snowy for a good third of the way before his body threatened to collapse underneath him. It was Snowy who won, his stubby tail wagging as he pressed a triumphant paw against the mansion’s doors. “Okay, you win." Tintin said as he huffed up the stairs. "Just let me collect my breath and we'll go in.”

It was as Tintin was tugging at his shirt collar that the hall’s doors opened, unprompted. Nestor greeted them with a single raised brow but otherwise didn't comment on their harried appearance.

“Master Tintin, welcome back. How was Turkey?”

The Englishman held the door for them and Snowy dashed in for his prize. Tintin gave a wordless nod of thanks as he entered. “It was pleasant,” he answered. “I only got one concussion the whole trip.”

Instead of gracing the reporter with a response, the butler closed the door behind him.

“Am I to presume no trouble has followed you home this time?”

“Well, we’ll find out in a few days, won’t we?”

“Charming.” As Nestor began freeing Tintin from coat and bag, a series of loud thumps began emitting from the living room. After listening for a bit, Tintin deciphered the noise as stomps. But who would be stomping, and why? It couldn’t be the Professor - the man wasn't prone to stomping - and it couldn't be the Captain, for the steps had a slight echo to them.

“Do we have guests?” asked Tintin.

“In fact, we do. Mr. Thompson and Mr. Thomson were keen to see you and graced us with an unannounced visit. They've been waiting all morning for your return in hopes to congratulate you."

“Congratulate me?” Tintin wracked his brain for any major recent events but his mind drew blank. His trip to Turkey had been dull; no busted political conspiracy or drug ring, no groundbreaking publications. It was nowhere near his birthday or any anniversary. He cocked his head at Nestor, “Whatever for?”

The butler’s face showed no tell but his tone was decidedly amused as he drawled, "Why, your upcoming nuptials, of course.”

.

.

.

“Wh-”

Before he could finish, the stampeding footsteps matured into a large BANG as the living room doors flew open. “Tintin, you’ve returned!”

“Precise to say, you’re back!”

The Thompsons entered the entrance hall like a pair of moles, disappearing from the doors and reappearing on either side of Tintin, each grabbing the opposing hand for a vigorous handshake.

“I have to say, it’s unexpected and last minute, but I'd be honored to accept the position as your best man-”

“Which is to say, I am honored to accept-”

“You? No offense Thomson, but-”

“Yes, me! I am Tintin’s best friend-”

"As if! Everyone knows Tintin and I are like pigs in a blanket."

"Well, everyone knows Tintin and I are like peas in a pod!" 

One detective glared at the other. The other glared also. Hands still trapped in handshakes of doom, Tintin shot Nestor a pleading look. The butler, a true best of men, ushered the detectives away with a, “Shall we take this to the living room, gentlemen? I’ll have refreshments by shortly. Any preference?”

“Milk, please,” they both answered as Nestor corralled them into the living room. Free at last, Tintin stretched his aching fingers and arms as he trailed behind them. As the Thompsons began to fuss over seating arrangements, Tintin spoke, “Excuse me, but I believe there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m not-”

“Oh, Tintin, you’re back." The reporter stopped short as Professor Calculus peered at him from behind the cover of a full-length armchair he previously thought unoccupied. “Tell me, is your wedding in the Spring or Summer? A few colleagues of mine are insisting I should accompany them on a project in South America, but I can’t very well miss one of my dear friend’s weddings. So when is it? Have you planned a date yet?”

Even the Professor was in on it? Lost at how such a momentous misunderstanding could have occurred, Tintin cast his eyes over the room for a source. Nestor gave no tells, and true to their agreement; Snowy occupied the chair nearest the fireplace. And across from him-

Tintin caught the newspaper thrown against his chest without thought. He unfolded it, sending the captain a questioning look over top it, but Haddock said nothing. He returned his focus to the paper and noticed that it wasn’t a local paper, but the name was familiar. Then he read the title.

The Boy Reporter no longer a Boy? Written by Alba Demuro. Oh yes, now he recalled. Miss Demuro interviewed him a month ago in exchange for information on a case. The interview itself had faded into obscurity, but he remembered Miss Demuro telling him she’d send him a free copy of the newspaper once the paper published it. This must be that very paper. But where did marriage enter the picture? He didn't remember saying a word on marriage during the interview.

He sent Haddock another questioning glance, but the man had turned his eyes towards the fire. Little flecks of golden light made his eyes shine and Tintin had to raise the newspaper higher to shield himself from the mesmerizing sight. He took a few seconds to gather his thoughts. Thompsons. Mysterious marriage. Interview.

Right then, time to sort this out.

* * *

The Boy Reporter no longer a Boy? Written by Alba Demuro.

_ Two weeks ago, I had the pleasure of interviewing Belgium’s most famous reporter, a boy only known by the name of Tintin. Or perhaps no longer a boy? It has been over seven years since Tintin published his first article in The Petite Vingtième, and while Tintin’s face still keeps a youthfulness to it, I realized after our talk at the local outdoor cafe that the recklessly heroic boy reporter was no more; replaced with a more mature and thoughtful adult reporter, though no less heroic. Tintin himself seemed to agree._

_ Things have changed since my first year of reporting,” he said, fiddling with the handle of his teacup. “I’d say my approach changed the most.”_

_ "In what way?” I asked._  
  
_ "Well, for starters, I don't play stowaway in large ships or planes anymore.” The reporter across from me said it with such a matter-of-factness that I was too shocked to interject as he continued. “Unfortunately, I can no longer justify doing these dangerous acts, not with my friends cautioning me at every turn.” He smiled good-naturedly, if not with a tinge of regret for past deeds that I could never imagine; stowing away in vehicles headed who-knows-where, disrupting unlawful cargo and underhanded military regiments. He truly sounded more hero than person._  
  
_ Do you think you’ll ever tire of being a reporter or traveling?” I asked of him next. To this, Tintin had shaken his head the moment ‘tire’ left my mouth._  
  
_ "Never, or at least, not soon. The opportunity to see many new places, learning other people’s cultures, exposing corruptions; they’re both something I could never grow tired of. Though if I weren’t a field reporter, I'm sure I'd have chosen a well-traveled job like a touring circus, or a sailor.” The reporter looked much amused by the latter career, but before I could ask his judgment of sailors, he continued. “Traveling was my serendipity. I never thought of it as a serious prospect until I was a reporter but once I left Belgium for the first time, it was like endless doorways opened in a hallway I wasn’t even aware existed, and I should be a poor investigator if I didn’t investigate all the thresholds I could.”_  
  
_ A well-put sentiment. I told him so between sips of our drinks and the tiniest bit of red dotted his cheeks; a sign of modesty I did not expect. As I gave him his time to protest, which he did, my mind began to wonder. How did those close to him react when confronted with his larger-than-life history, yet painfully modest personality? More to the point, with how frequent he traveled, was there anyone close to him at all?"_  
  
_ "Snowy," Tintin was quick to state when asked. "He's been with me from the beginning and I can’t imagine doing this without him." Snowy, Tintin's white Fox Terrier, has been with him since his first newsprint. A loyal canine that has sniffed out clues, traveled continents, and even fought off several ne'er-do-wells. Tintin assured me that the dog was in perfect health against even with the hazardous career. _  
  
_ "With the way he is now;" Tintin started with a laugh, "He might be getting younger. Ridiculous, but who knows? Maybe he’s been hiding the fountain of youth from me this whole time." We both laughed. After our chuckles died, I asked him if there was anyone else. _  
  
_ "A dog can’t be all there is," I remember saying, despite expecting the opposite - for in every piece I’ve read on our staunch reporter there was no one else - and I thought myself foolish to even ask._

_ But circumstances have apparently changed. The no-longer-boy-reporter paused, staring at his by-then empty teacup. His face was one of wool-gathering. At length, I waited for his response and watched as his countenance eased into something altogether fond._  
  
_ "__Yes, there is someone," he said. Interested, I pressed for more information but Tintin only shook his head, stating that he’d prefer keeping such matters private before calling a waiter to refill our drinks. After a small break, the interview resumed-_

* * *

Like a flame jumping to life, the source of his trouble became illuminated in Tintin’s mind. He skimmed the rest of the article but nothing was near as damning. Though there was no talk of marriage in the entire article, with Professor Calculus it was only a matter of word association, and with the Thompsons nearby to exaggerate it…

Tintin lowered the paper to find everyone staring at him; expectant.

“I’m sorry to disappoint, but I’m not getting married.”

“Oh, I know commitment is a scary thing, but you mustn't be too frightened or else you’ll miss the good things in life,” insisted Calculus.

“I’m not getting married,” Tintin repeated louder. The Thompsons glanced at each other, before directing their eyes back at Tintin as if he’d grown a second head.

“Why ever not?” asked Thompson.

“Yes, why not ever?” asked Thomson.

“Well, isn’t it obvious?” asked Haddock from his armchair; the first words Tintin heard from him since he’d returned from his trip. He was smirking, but the light reflecting off his eyes gave him a glassy-eyed stare, and the way his fingers dug into the arm of his chair screamed strained. “There is no ‘special someone’. The filthy reporter must have lied, trying to cause a ruckus. No good, stinking reporters-”

Tintin rolled up the newspaper and crossed the carpet to wack Haddock on his head. “Hold your tongue, Captain, or shall I remind you I’m a ‘no good, stinking reporter’ too?”

“I know, laddie, but you’re one of the honest ones. Not like these other rapscallions, popping out of the underbrush, sensationalizing everything, trying to convince us you’re getting married.

“So wait,” Thompson began, his eyes squinting, “you’re not-?”

Tintin shook his head. “I’m not.”

“Then the paper was lying, was it?” Thomson asked with furrowed brows. Both detectives began tapping the curved end of their canes against their open palm. “How fraudulent!”

"Downright manipulative.

"Incomprehensible."

"Unfathomable."

"That's illegal, that is."

“More precise to say; that’s libel!”

Tintin rushed to tug the detective's back as they marched towards the doors. “But it isn’t," he exclaimed, "because I do have a special someone!”

The whole room stilled. Even Snowy, who had begun snuffling in his sleep, raised a drowsy head at Tintin’s shout. Conscious of the eyes on him, Tintin hastened to explain, “But there is no marriage. The paper didn’t mention one because there is none. Honestly, for you to assume it’s a romantic matter in the first place is presumptuous. So please,” he begged, “don’t arrest anyone because no one was lying.”

“Arrest someone?” Thompson reared back. “We weren’t we going to arrest anyone, were we, Thomson?”

Thomson's mustache wriggled in offense. “Precise to say we were going to arrest no one.”

“Oh…" Tintin dropped his arms, "Well, that’s good.”

“So that’s it then?” Haddock asked from his chair. He was grinning from ear to ear; no doubt gleeful of the prospect of a little peace and quiet. Poor man. Judging from his ecstatic expression, the Thompsons must have dithered on the wedding all morning. “I’m glad we got that cleared up. There is no tolling bells and no special someone - or, there is - but it’s not that special someone. Not a romantic ...” 

Haddock trailed off. Tintin struggled to keep his face neutral, but the Captain had gotten good at reading his expressions over the years. Hopefully, not too good, or else Tintin might as well have pinned a love ballad to his forehead. He ducked his head, hoping to dissuade further interpretation, but that was, in its own way, a tell.

“What was that about presumptions?” Thompson asked, arms crossed.

“Well, don’t leave us in suspense." Thomson said, "Who is it?”

Tintin deflated in a single inward sigh. Oh, if only he knew a month ago what havoc this interview would bring. “L- Let’s sit first. I’ve had a long trip and my feet ache.” He meandered his way back to the circle of chairs surrounding the fireplace and switched seats with Snowy, placing the dog on his lap. Nestor appeared at his side with refreshments the moment he sat down. 

“Perhaps, Master Tintin, your feet wouldn't ache if you hadn’t raced the entire driveway on your return.”

“Yes, thank you, Nestor. I will try to remember your advice next time.” Tintin accepted the offered tall glass of water and drank his fill. Then drank more. He hoped his elongated drinking would delay the conversation, but it didn't work.

“I’m confused. Earlier, did you say, ‘Use a seashell song?’”

“No Professor, I said… Well, the truth is there is no marriage but there is…” Face flushing, Tintin finished with a reluctant, “someone.”

“Are they a special someone?”

“Yes, they are extremely dear to me.” Tintin was careful to focus on Calculus’ green bathrobe and the two fuzzy slippers peeking beneath the hem. Don't look across from you, he reminded himself. Don't give yourself away. "But I haven’t told them how dear they are to me.”

“And why not?” asked the Professor. “You must tell the people closest to you your feelings or else risk them never knowing.”

“What you say is true, but I don't pretend to understand the way one goes about it. My experience concerning these things is minimal.”

The Thompsons gasped, their mustaches dripping with white milk, “Is that-”

“That is to say-”

“Tintin, is this your first crush?”

They held their cheeks with their glasses still in hand, causing twin spillage down the side of their shared armchair. Tintin thought it over. He hadn’t a long romantic history. In fact, before this, he could've sworn he had no romantic inclinations at all. With no prior primary experience, he supposed what he harbored could be a crush.

“Well, that sounds a little childish, but I suppose… yes?”

“And you’ve never asked anyone to dates before?” Nestor plucked the now empty glasses of milk from their hands with nary a word.

“No, never.”

The Thompsons clapped with glee, as if awed by Tintin’s inexperience, while Tintin himself began to regret ever having said anything. He went to drink from his glass of water, but finding it empty, put it down to pet Snowy instead.

“Who is it? Is it someone who lives around here? Thompson asked. Thomson elbowed Thompson.

“What are you saying? Of course they don’t live around here. If they lived nearby, Tintin would’ve introduced us, surely.”

“Oh, so they’re someone you’ve met abroad then?”

Tintin nodded. “Yes, they are.” It wasn’t a lie. He kept his eyes on the detective but his neck ached to turn, his body to twist and face the Captain. He forced himself still.

“A distant love relationship! How romantic!” cried Thompson. He grabbed the bowler hat from his head and held it in front of his heart like he was being sworn in. If he were any more joyous, he'd be swooning, and Tintin had to stifle a laugh at his expression.

“Love? Love!?” All eyes turned to Haddock who rose from his chair, the clench of his teeth audible. “Enough of this nonsense. Don’t you two have business to attend to? The boy’s tired from his trip to Ostrich-”

“Turkey,” Tintin corrected.

“- and he doesn’t need anymore questioning. Out with you lot. I don't want to see your funny mustaches until a week has passed, and not a day less!”

The Thompsons, instead of feeling offense at such a rude eviction, scratched their heads.

“Why, I suspect we had business.”

“Yes, I suspect so. But what was it?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Neither can I.”

“Either way, a week is an excellent amount of time.”

“Yes, quite excellent.”

Curiosity was a funny thing. Rather than heed his brain's cautious warnings supplemented by reasonable misgivings, Tintin said, “An excellent amount of time for what, may I ask?”

The Thompsons jumped to their feet and each clapped a hand on his shoulders. Tintin, trapped by Snowy’s drowsy form on his lap, had to resort to craning his neck to see who spoke.

“Why, to plan a way to aid your romance endeavors. You didn’t think we’d leave you helpless, did you?”

“Thoughtful, but unnecessary-”

“Nonsense, with our help you’ll have that special someone in no-”

“Out!” Haddock barked. The Thompsons laughed as if the Captain had said a funny joke, tipped their hats goodbye, and with one last bump into each other, they were gone.

“And you,” Haddock said, rounding on Professor Calculus, “don’t you have experiments to do?”

Calculus blinked at the finger directed at his person. “Why, I’ve never thought of giving spear mints their due, but I’m sure they’re acceptable plants. Yes, they should be perfect for…” The Professor became contemplative. He rose from his chair holding his chin, and then left the room, leaving behind only Snowy, Tintin, and Haddock.

“Thank you, Captain,” Tintin said as Haddock reclaimed his seat. His only response was a grunt. He wanted to ask the Captain his own questions; how had he been since they last talked? What did he think of the article? Did he have or had his own special someone? But Haddock had a churlish air suggesting it unwise to ask, and so they sat in silence for another hour, undisturbed.

Tintin was halfway to dozing off and putting the conversation behind him when Haddock spoke again. “That special someone…”

“Huh?” Tintin jolted upright. He tried to control his reactions: the hard beat of his heart against his chest, his throat clenching, the sweat - but as his eyes met Haddock’s, he doubted it mattered. Did Haddock know? Did Tintin want him to know?

He waited for more words, but they never came. Haddock’s blue gaze dropped from his own and the moment passed. “Never mind laddie, it’s none of my business.”

He couldn’t very well tell the other man that if it was any one man’s business, it’d most belong to him, so Tintin laid back and tried to ignore it. He rested his eyes, and when he next awoke, it was nearing dinner. The living room was empty but over his figure laid a thin woolen blanket. Tintin smiled. The Captain must've put it over him. 

Dinner that evening was a regular affair. Neither Calculus nor Haddock brought up the article or someones, and by bedtime Tintin became certain that was the end. The Thom(p)sons were scatter-brained. Their little matchmaking scheme would be forgotten within the day. Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

But no story would be half as interesting if it ended there, would it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One) I'm not wholly satisfied with this chapter so I'll probably edit it later. If you notice any funkiness please point it out!  
Two) I'm aware that they're not called the Thompsons. I tried to put it as the Thom(p)sons but that didn't look quite right either.  
Three) Sorry if characterization is way off. I've watched the Tintin cartoons years ago and recently rewatched the 2011 film but never read the comics and the 2011film doesn't really showcase Calculus that much.
> 
> I hope you like the story. Next Chapter will most likely be from the Captain's point of view. There's (hopefully) going to be 6 chapters in all updating every Saturday.


	2. My dear beloved,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thompson and Thomson aid in romantic endeavors (but mostly Haddock sulks).

By the time a week had passed, Captain Haddock had forced himself to forget the interview debacle and to never mention it until Tintin did first. So far, Tintin hadn't, and that was fine; even if the Captain's tongue burned and he lie awake at night, haunted by the words and their implication. It was fine. He had no qualms burying his questions. For now.

.

"Nestor, have you seen Tintin? I haven't seen him since breakfast."

"Master Tintin had early morning visitors: Mr. Thompson and Mr. Thomson. They said they were here to — how did they put it — 'aid in romantic endeavors'?"

Haddock leaped out of his seat, dodging Nestor's tray of snickerdoodles by an inch. "What? Where? Where did those two devil-stached troglodytes drag Tintin?"

"They've taken residence in the study, sir."

Haddock marched out of the living room with a snarl.

"I suppose we'll be taking the snacks to the study then." Nestor sighed, following his employer at a more sedate pace.

.

He should've never read that blasted paper, or better yet, thrown it away the moment he read the title. "The boy reporter no longer a boy?" Such nonsense! But it was clear Tintin was expecting its arrival and so he kept it — except he should've hidden it away from the likes of the Professor and the two bumbling detectives, whose deafness and buffoonery blew the matters way out of proportion. Marriage! Ha! As if Tintin could marry on such short notice. He told them as much with a sharp tongue and disapproving brows, but did they listen to old, reliable Haddock? No!

And he had been right! The boy had no designs for marriage. He only had a crush — or so he claimed. Inexperienced or not, Haddock doubted it was as simple as that. No, he suspected like every other facet in his life, Tintin waded in waist-deep, and like every other time, he wanted to keep it to himself. Why else did they only find out when molasses-thick fondness coated his voice; when his feeling so overwhelmed he struggled to meet anyone's eyes?

"You're a reporter for Pete's sake! This should come easy to you!"

Haddock slowed his stride as he approached the study. There was a crack in the door and voices spilled out into the hallway with no regard for volume control.

"Reporting is different!" Tintin exclaimed, sounding affronted. "It has a narrative; simple cause and effect. Prose, inner reflection; that's different."

Haddock sidled next to the door. A faint memory flashed in his mind from a week ago; the detectives' declaration to help Tintin with his budding romance. He should turn away. Let them be and do whatever they wished to their hearts' content. He stayed put.

"Oh," Thompson snapped his fingers. "Why don't you write the story of how you fell in love? That has physical events where you can reach inward if need be."

"That's… not a terrible idea."

A pause. Haddock brought his eye to the crack in the door and observed Tintin at his desk facing the door. He was in front of his typewriter; a pair of bowler hats looming over his shoulders. The air was thick with suspense until Tintin snapped, "Privacy please, gentlemen?"

"Yes, privacy!" The detectives echoed before leaving Haddock's narrow eye-line. Judging by the increasing rise of Tintin's shoulders, they were still peeking and doing a poor job of hiding it. Before Haddock could second guess himself, he opened the door and stepped inside. As he suspected, the two nosy men were still staring at Tintin over the backs of their books several feet away. Thompson's book was sideways and Thomson's was closed.

With the most unaffected voice he could muster, Haddock walked in and asked, "And what are you lot doing?"

Replacing his book, Thomson answered, "We're helping Tintin write a love letter to his special someone."

"More precise to say, we're helping Tintin write a love serenade to his special someone."

The detectives glared at each other.

"Letter. A letter is better."

"Yes, but it's not as romantic. A serenade though-"

"One must sing a serenade. We don't even have music!"

Haddock faltered in his steps and shot a glance at Tintin. The lad had ducked his head so low his shoulders reached his ears. Haddock smiled and tried to hide how it strained his face. Oh, to be young and in love. "So you're taking the initiative then? That's good."

"Yes," answered Thompson, "but he's been having trouble."

"Yes, lots of trouble. Do you have any advice, Captain? Surely, someone as old as you must've written or received a love letter once or twice — "

"— or have experience with catchy ditties? A lovely sea shanty that you can sing to give Tintin inspiration, perhaps?"

Even though he knew it was a terrible idea, Haddock circled the desk, eyes on Tintin. The lad looked miserable with the attention; a rare look for him in the safety of Marlinspike Hall. He could only recall Tintin ever wearing a similar face on the grounds last week.

(_A hard time meeting anyone's eyes, clutching at his glass of water, and when that ran out, later busying himself petting Snowy. Whoever it was, he wanted it kept near his chest. Yes, Tintin always preferred to keep those soft feelings hidden. Yet, he thought at least he would be the exception.)_

Tintin puffed up as Haddock came closer. He sat straighter, moved forward in his chair — Haddock didn't realize it was an attempt to shield his writing until his hand was on the back of Tintin's chair and he was staring at the words on the paper. By then it was too late. Haddock had it memorized.

Only three words occupied the page:

_My dear beloved_,

Three words. Three simple words and they stabbed Haddock's heart. It was as if a rusted harpoon had shot through his chest, dripping scalding sea water into the fresh wound even after its removal. He straightened, patting Tintin on the shoulder; for once glad of the boy's newfound shyness or else witness his heart shatter. He forced his eyes away from those three words and faced the detectives. "No," he answered, "I have zero experience with trifling love letters or serenades."

"None at all?" asked Thompson.

"No, and I don't care to have any either."

"Where are you headed?" asked Thomson as he headed towards the exit.

"Don't you want to help?" asked Thompson.

"I'm afraid I'd hinder more than help." And that was the truth. Haddock wrenched open the half-closed door and —

"Snickerdoodles, sir?"

— squeezed past Nestor carrying a tray of snickerdoodles before departing with a huff.

"We'll take them!" Cried Thompson and Thomson.

* * *

The living room was empty save for Snowy, lounging in the armchair near the fireplace. It wasn't lit, but he supposed the dog like the spot even without it. Haddock took his seat and soon found his head nestled in the space between the cushion and the back in the most unbecoming manner. He couldn't bring himself to care. The words traced themselves under his eyelids, haunting him. My dear beloved.

"Say Snowy," Haddock said to the room, "you don't happen to know who's captured Tintin's heart, do you?"

He couldn't hear signs of Snowy's approach but puffs of air blew against his face and when he opened his eyes, Snowy was there staring at him. The Captain stilled as the dog sniffed him. Then a great big dog tongue dragged across his cheek.

"All right, all right — gerroff me!"

The dog jumped off with a bark. Haddock hid his smile as he wiped the saliva off his cheek. "What's say this, Snowy? Since Tintin's busy, why don't I take you for a walk? It's a lovely day outside."

Snowy's tail wagged and he barked, and so they did.

.

"— and I realize the lad's not a boy. He's lost his baby fat, grown a few inches, stopped sticking his neck out at every little thing — soon enough he'll marry with kids, living a settled life. I've accepted that; I have ..."

Silence.

"I think I'd accept it more if I knew who this 'special someone' was, but if it's someone Tintin's met abroad then that could be anyone from America to Zimbabwe. Guess I could ask him but you know how he is with personal things. You can ask him how he dismantled an international drug ring and he'll answer no problem, but you ask him if he's _okay_ after dismantling said infernal drug ring and he clams up tighter than a shell."

Haddock sighed, his warm breath fanning over his chilled cheeks. Brown leaves dotted the trail, floating in large, muddy puddles. Others might call the weather outside dreadful but after a lifetime at sea, Haddock found the skeletal trees a blessing and the chill nothing more than a light breeze.

"One day Tintin will move away. I've accepted that — only you'll drag him back here every once in awhile, won't you?" Haddock pleaded. He waited for a response, but none came; his avid listener had taken time off to nose a small pile of leaves. It was nice to get his feelings out there, even if to a dog. At least it was a better alternative than drowning in whiskey, though in his darkest moments he thought the opposite.

No, better to feel pathetic talking to Snowy than at the bottom of a bottle.

"Thanks for listening to me, old pup."

It was at that moment Snowy's head shot up. Haddock chalked it up to his address but then the dog's white ears perked as if listening to something far away. Haddock scanned nearby for danger. Danger, as it was, came in the form of a small squirrel several yards away.

"No!" Haddock shouted, but it was too slow. The squirrel ran and Snowy gave chase by leaping into a large puddle near Haddock's feet, thus soaking them both. The squirrel climbed up a tree before Snowy could ever come close and it took a good two minutes of barking until Snowy calmed again leaving Haddock wet, cold, and ringing in the ears.

This week was turning into a disaster.

.

"Nestor?" The Captain called once they entered the entrance hall.

No response.

"Stay here." He instructed the dog sitting by the door. "Don't move and don't — "

As if on cue, Snowy stood and shook his fur out. Water sprayed everywhere, large dots landing on Haddock's face, his neck, even his mouth. Blech. "You little rascal!" He hissed as Snowy trotted past him without a care in the world. "You better not sit on any furniture. I don't care how dry you think you are — you're not getting my furniture wet!"

Grumbling, Haddock made his way to the hall closet and drew out a towel. He wiped himself and took off his sopping wet jacket. Goosebumps raised along his skin as it met room temperature and he shivered. Oh, if he got sick because of that dog, he was getting kicked out. No ifs, ands, or buts. He got another towel and cleaned up the floor, then moved into the living room —

— and the damned mutt was sitting on the chair. What was it with everyone ignoring him these days? And in his own house, too!

"Off." He demanded. Snowy opened one eye and for a horrible second, Haddock feared he'd lost his touch before Snowy jumped onto the floor. He dried the dog as best he could and placed a towel on the armchair where Snowy jumped back up before dozing back to sleep. Task complete, Haddock noticed how drenched his shoes were and the pants that clung to his legs. He needed a shower, or a change, at the very least.

It wasn't until faint music reached his ears that he remembered he'd have to pass the study to get to his room. It was a blessing on most nights; if he didn't pass by to remind Tintin to head to bed, he was sure come morning he'd find the boy asleep on his desk. Now, he cursed himself; a soft melody — a siren's call — filled the halls, luring him in, but he walked forward determined not to fall for its temptations, but then the singing reached his ears.

_— under/_  
_A more honest heart/_  
_I'll never find/_  
_My dear beloved/  
_ _Won't you be mine?_

Tintin's voice warbled, but unlike that witch Castafiore, it held a lovely quality. The rhythm was rough, a young sailor's first go at a sea shanty without the backup of his crew to even it out, but Haddock could hear the sincerity. The music soon ended. Someone started clapping. Two voices called out, "Good show! Good show!"

Haddock hurried past without another word, his shoes squish-squashing down the hallway.

.

The study was empty by the time Haddock finished his bath. Lunchtime had arrived and everyone was no doubt enjoying a meal made by Nestor downstairs. He craned his ear for sounds on the upper floor. It was quiet. Good. Haddock scowled at the thought. What had the world come to; forced to sneak around in his own home? He should've been able to enter without fear of suspicion; it _was_ his study.

Oh, who he was kidding? This was Tintin's study, which, without his presence, would see little use from Haddock. There was the model of his great grandpapa's ship in a glass case along the western wall but the ship was the sum of his influence over the room. It was Tintin's typewriter collection that lined the windowsill, his bundle of medals which hung near the window, his antiques and souvenirs from across the world which sat in a china cabinet. Haddock couldn't imagine the study without the lad's little touches and wondered for a moment if he could ever stand in the study again once Tintin moved out.

The thought had him lingering at the doorway, cautious to step further in and disturb the ghosts he envisioned in a world without Tintin — but then, thinking himself ridiculous, he entered the room and locked the door behind him. A gramophone sat on the desk's edge; the one that usually occupied the largest living room. They must've brought it up to practice the serenade. The rest of the desk was bare except for the typewriter; the paper on the carriage fresh and untouched, awaiting ink.

He didn't know if it was good or bad fortune that there was no My dear beloved, to stare back at him.

Framed newspapers covered the wall — a mixture of Tintin's work, the ones he was proudest of, and reports of Tintin; interviews that he had agreed to, sparse as they were. For as famous as he was and the interviews he conducted, Tintin didn't understand the necessity of a reporter writing a story on a reporter. He said it was superfluous. It was only at the Captain's insistence that he framed those newspapers too, instead of putting them in his filing cabinet. Haddock's eyes latched onto these interviews, eyes consuming the written word as if, if he forced his eyes to soak in enough, he could make a timeline: the Before and After of that special someone.

It wasn't long until Haddock was locking the room to the study and removing the frames from their hooks. The most recent interview was from half a year ago when Tintin saved a religious figure in Italy, but the interviewer either didn't ask questions on relationships or didn't care to publish it. The next most recent one was from a year and three months ago; a vacation to Thailand turned into stopping illegal animal trades. Nothing on special someones. Next most recent. Nada. Next. Nope.

After pulling a third of the frames from the wall, he finds what he's searching for. It's dated from two-and-a-half years ago and doesn't detail a particular trip or daring rescue; a random spotlight interview. Halfway through the article -

_ We asked Tintin if there was anybody he had his eyes on or if, as a famous reporter known countries over, if he had many admirers._

"_Not really," he answered. "People recognize me but the number is lower than you think. I'm only ever often spotted around the western parts of Europe; everywhere else and I'm another foreigner. As for if I'm seeing anyone: no. Work is my top priority right now."_

Two-and-a-half years. 30 months. In that period between then and now, Tintin had met his dear beloved and fallen in love. Now what? He holds this knowledge and what was he to do? Why had he even been searching for it — to narrow the suspects? He had no track record of Tintin's acquaintances. Yes, Tintin detailed more interesting characters on his travel abroad to the Captain, but even then - Was it the architect from Russia, the assistant professor from India, the paleontologist from Brazil? No, it had to be someone he kept in constant contact. But who? When the boy traveled for a living, how would he even start to find them?

Haddock took stock of the mess he made. Newspapers laid across the floor, empty frames leaned against the desk. What did it matter? Even if he found the identity of this mysterious person, could it satisfy him? The answer came from within. It couldn't. He re-framed the newspapers and put them back where they belonged and inspected the study. Tintin would tell him when he was ready.

He closed the door behind him. He had hoped to leave his half-formed ghost with him at the door but they trailed after him; a persistent shadow, whispering, "My dear beloved."

* * *

The next few days were free of Thompson and Thomson. Haddock didn't ask, but he assumed the detectives were out doing their jobs for once. Tintin didn't mind their absence and didn't comment on his progress, leaving Haddock to wonder if Tintin had sent his letter or serenade to his beloved. Haddock didn't ask. It was none of his business and he snooped enough.

* * *

"Master Tintin, a new letter for you."

They were having breakfast in the dining room. Professor Calculus was humming a song to himself as he slathered his waffles in syrup and Haddock was smiling at the extra grapes he'd received from Tintin's plate.

"Oh, does it say from who?"

"I believe this one is from Chang, sir."

It fell into place. A special someone he'd met abroad. My dear beloved. A sincere heart. Haddock had only met Chang the one time, but there could be no mistaking the boy's heart. Tintin must have realized he loved the boy in his recent visit to London. The look on Tintin's face cinched it, the bright eyes, the excited smile. Tintin tore into the envelope at the table, discarding the usual facsimiles of propriety.

Haddock had never been privy to such conflicting emotions than he did at the breakfast table. He wished happiness for Tintin, even beyond the jealousy; and felt foolish for not spotting the obvious sooner. Tintin had a prophetic dream surrounding Chang, for Neptune's sake. He climbed snowy mountains and risked life and death for the boy. If there was anyone more perfect for Tintin, then send him to the plank. Even now Tintin sat there, breakfast and company forgotten in favor of soaking his lover's words and there could be no doubt.

It was then that Haddock, with his old, shriveled heart, decided that he'd sooner listen to opera than stand in the way of such love. That, if Tintin wanted, he'd hand them the money for their reunion. It was the least he could do for them. Neptune's beard, if they wanted, they could wed in the chateau's garden. The law won't recognize their marriage, but still —

Ah. The hunched shoulders, the eye ducking, a keen want for privacy. Tintin must have not felt embarrassed, per se, but afraid of the backlash he might receive if he revealed his special someone's identity. How to do this with tact? Haddock had spent his youth in the large seven seas where such things weren't so unheard of, but Tintin had grown up in an orphanage controlled by the church. Haddock opened his mouth but closed it when he remembered the Professor next to him. Later. He'll confront Tintin on the matter later.

.

"Oh, Captain. Hello, I'm writing a response to Chang. Did you need something?"

Later came around mid-afternoon. Calculus had returned to his laboratory and the Thompsons hadn't yet returned to bother them. Haddock had entered the study to find Tintin with pen and paper in hand. The corner of the desk still held the gramophone, but it spun no tune. The lads stared at him patiently, arms open, face lax. On closer inspection, he found Tintin's letter written in Chinese. Yes, that explained it. Tintin must be relaxed because he was confident the Captain hadn't retained enough Chinese to decipher his love letter.

"Captain?"

Haddock's eyes jumped away from the penned letter. Right. Head in the game, Haddock. Can't mess this up. He swallowed around his nervousness and stared Tintin straight in the eye. "Tintin, I have something I want you to hear."

"Yes, Captain?"

It was odd. These past few days Haddock had wanted nothing but for Tintin to put this infatuation aside and pay attention to him, but as determined as Tintin was to avoid it, there was still a sense of furtiveness that clouded every interaction they had — but now Tintin was staring straight at him, face as open as a book, and he was stumbling.

"I'm here to tell you I - Well, out on the seven seas it's not so difficult… That is to say when men get desperate — not to say you're desperate or anything, laddie. I'm only saying what a man sees out in the sea is… Well, it's not that strange, but to some landlubbers, it might be. B- But _I_ don't consider it strange — Do you get what I'm saying, laddie?"

Tintin's response was immediate, "Not a clue."

"Oh blue blistering barnacles might as well come out with it. I - I know who your special someone is!"

The color drained from Tintin's face and he sat back in his chair as if walloped. "You do?" He squeaked.

"Thundering typhoons, don't make me for a fool, laddie. Of course, I do — who else? It's Chang!"

Tintin laughed then. It wasn't a mean-spirited laugh, but it rendered the Captain speechless. Did he get it wrong? "I - I thought-" He gestured to the letter in front of him but Tintin shook his head.

"Great snakes, Captain! I love Chang, but he isn't the one I'm _in_ love with."

Relief settled in the Captain's shoulder before Tintin's words echoed back to him. Then who? And love? It was his turn to become pale. As even-voiced as he could, he asked, "Love, huh? What happened to crush?"

Tintin sobered at that and looked away, a familiar red dusting his cheeks. "Well, as I said, I'm inexperienced…"

The silence lingered. Haddock found it rueful that he was right. Waist-deep and nothing less from this old fellow. He nodded his head as if they'd finished a business merger and backed away. "Right. Yes. I'll leave you to your writing. Sorry for disturbing you. I'll leave before I make an even bigger fool of myself. Don't mind me."

He made a beeline for the door.

"Captain?" Haddock paused and turned. Tintin looked up at him with a hesitant bend to his brows. He waited for the lad to speak further but nothing came forward. Finally, the lad smiled and said, "Never mind. Thank you for your kind words."

"Anytime, laddie."

So it wasn't Chang. How disappointing. He knew Chang. He had been willing to step aside for Chang. If it was someone else, he wasn't so sure he'd be as ready. More so, for someone he'd never met.

* * *

The next time he was in the study, Tintin had a book on flowers open on his desk. "Isn't it far too early to be planning what to plant for next spring?"

"Professor Calculus recommended this book to me. Did you know there's a whole language surrounding flowers? For example, if you send someone asters it symbolizes love."

"I thought that was roses?"

Tintin said nothing but shot him a pointed look: raised brows, tilted head, a small frown; a mixture of disappointment and accusation. A teasing grin broke out from the Captain's face.

"Didn't know Calculus was a romantic."

"Very. Kept advising me on how to confess even though I was asking for a compress." They shared a smile before Tintin leaned forward. "Tell me, do you enjoy flowers?"

"Hate them." He didn't. "They die in a few days and I never know where to place them, much less how to keep them alive." Haddock had learned to love flowers somewhere between the poppy fields of Holland and the little weeds that one of his former crew-mates struggled to keep alive while at sea. If Calculus didn't take over gardening at Marlinspike Hall, Haddock might've tried his hand at keeping the garden growing; but Tintin didn't need to know that and he wasn't willing to give the lad fodder to drag him into choosing flowers for his beloved.

"That's a shame." Tintin went back to his book. The gramophone had vanished and the typewriter laid wayside. He wanted to ask if he'd sent it off, his serenading letter, to a place far across the borders. He wanted, but he didn't.

* * *

The next day, Tintin is still reading the book with Haddock sat across from him in the living room. He expected as much but still, it stings. The boy is not reading for him. The boy is reading for someone else, devoted to someone else, arduously in love with someone else. No, no longer a boy. He'd do well to remember that.

He wanted to conduct his own interview. Who? When? Where? How? Why not me? He said nothing and Tintin read undisturbed in the silence and in that silence was love. Love lingered with every page turn, echoed itself in every word read, followed the tips of Tintin's fingers as he traced the petals on the page. He may have not said the words out loud but Haddock had no doubt Tintin's love was the sweetest; reserved only for the good of heart.

The silence overflowed so much, Haddock found that he could no longer stand it. "Did you send it?"

Tintin blinked and rubbed at his eyes. "Huh?"

Haddock stood and opened the curtains a bit more. Reading in proper lighting was important. "The letter you wrote with the detectives' help. Did you send it?" It had been a couple of days since then; he should've finished it by now.

"Not yet." Tintin gave Haddock an appreciative smile once he returned to his seat. "I imagine I'll never send it.."

"And why not?" Haddock frowned. "I'm sure what you've written is fine. Is it because you have trouble finishing?"

"No, I don't think it appropriate, is all. In fact, I think pursuing them is the wrong course of action entirely." Before Haddock could respond, Tintin placed his book aside and asked, "What would you fall for, Captain?"

The stare Tintin pierced him with could have criminals and do-gooders alike on their knees. Haddock found his gaze straying towards Snowy, lying near the fireplace. The steady rise and fall of the dog's calmed him. "I'm old." He stated, "I'm not falling for anyone or anything any time soon."

A glance back showcased a disappointed Tintin. Trust the reporter to wish the Captain companionship. His compassion had no bounds, but his distraction tactics could use work.

"So you've given up then?" asked Haddock.

"Yes," answered Tintin. Haddock turned to face the lad full-frontal; disbelief must've shown on his face because he asked. "Is there something wrong, Captain?"

"No, I'm just surprised. You don't give up easy, Tintin, and you don't say things without thinking them through. If you say you love them as you do, then I believe you, but if you say you're giving up — Well, then either you've been replaced or they've given you second thoughts. Do I have to punch them for you because — "

A delighted giggle broke from Tintin's lips that he covered with a dainty hand and Haddock had to laugh at the contradictory nature of it. The world-famous reporter who's knocked out guys twice his size with his fists alone, headstrong and forthright - hiding his lovely laughter behind his hand, reminiscent of a blushing maiden.

(Oh, how could he not fall in love?)

"An astute character study, Captain," Tintin said once his giggles subsided, "but you overestimate me. I just don't think it's good to pursue romance at this moment."

"At this moment?"

"Yes…" Tintin started fiddling with the cuffs of his sweater, "maybe later but not now."

"Won't it hurt?" Haddock asked. "Talking with them and doing nothing?" It hurt him. Was hurting him even now.

"To be honest, I don't think anything has to change between us. I - I love them; simple as that. I don't need them to acknowledge my feelings, and before the interview's publication, I had no plans of mentioning my feelings aloud. Sometimes… sometimes I feel, even if they live their entire life not knowing, I will be content because I had them by my side."

The sincerity dripping from Tintin's mouth, even if the lad couldn't gather the courage to look Haddock in the eye — and how vulnerable he had made himself, admitting such things; Haddock was both elated that Tintin felt them close enough to share these intimate feelings and so saddened that those words weren't for him. He smiled, and it was bittersweet.

"So selfless," the Captain praised. "You're a better man than me, Tintin, I'll tell you that right now." But they knew that already, didn't they? "What are they like, your beloved? Are they as selfless as you? Two saints atop a Christmas tree?"

Tintin stopped playing with his cuffs and looked Haddock in the eyes. "I wouldn't call them a saint, or me for that matter, but they are," and he put extra emphasis on his last words, "wholly unique."

Special, beloved, unique. How could Haddock ever compare?

"Well, if you ever decide to tell them. I wish you luck."

Tintin nodded, and soon after, they descended upon a comfortable silence only interrupted by page turning and Snowy's soft snores. Haddock sat back and contented himself with knowing that for now, Tintin will stay as much as his restless reporter heart allowed him to stay, and that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments. I read every one of them and I swear I'm finishing this before New Years! Also I have no idea how to use semicolons and I'm so sorry if I'm using it wrong.
> 
> I'm doing this a little on a rush, so please feel free to point out grammar/spelling mistakes if you spot them.


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